Through the Stomach
by Aris24
Summary: For a prompt: Molly bravely decides to pursue Mycroft's affections and decides the best way to win his heart might be through the man's stomach. She sends him every sweet she can bake. And that is not without consequence. slight weight gain, feeding, feeding up, and a bit of belly appreciation within.


_**Prompt: Molly's trying to be brave and pursue Mycroft, and she realizes that the way to his heart is most likely through his stomach? And Mycroft doesn't realize what she's doing 'til a good few pounds later, but he's already smitten and Molly really enjoys making sure he's well-fed**_

A sleek black car slid up to the curb directly in front of one, Molly Hooper. The pathologist was on her way home, about to catch a cab back to her flat. She eyed the car mistrustfully. A pale hand with elegant fingers emerged from the car's window and beckoned her over. Molly drew her coat around her, her hand on her mobile in case she had to call for help. Then she stepped close enough to see inside. Her eyes widened slightly. A rather lean man, pristine posture that somehow still managed to look relaxed, ginger hair and penetrating blue eyes. There was something familiar about...

"Miss Hooper?"

Molly jumped and had half a mind to turn tail and run back into the hospital.

"How do you... do I know you?" she asked, managing to keep her nervousness out of her tone.

"I shouldn't think so. We do have a friend in common however," said the man, sounding rather bored, "Sherlock Holmes is my brother. I merely wondered if I might ask what he was working on. He has grown rather adept at eluding my people... when he chooses to."

Molly bit her lip, suddenly recognizing several aspects of Sherlock's features in the stranger's. Somehow, this brother looked more gracious. Maybe it was that his cheekbones weren't so stark, or that his hair color didn't make him look so standoffish... Molly realised she hadn't replied.

"Oh, er... sorry! I mean, yes, I do know what he's working on. Sort of. Sometimes he talks aloud," she replied, smiling shyly, "He was mainly running tests on a tub of pancreases I'd saved for him. Not a case as far as I could tell."

"I see. Well, thank you, Miss Hooper. I'm sure we shall be chatting again in future."

"Oh, er, you can... you can call me Molly."

The elder Holmes gave her an odd calculating look that made her shiver.

"Have a good evening then, Molly."

"Thanks! Er, you too..."

"Mycroft."

"Mycroft," Molly repeated, smiling and nodding. The man gave her a tight sort of smile and then hurriedly rolled up his window again. The car slipped around the corner, leaving Molly staring after it.

Molly supposed she ought to feel frightened that someone could learn her daily routine so easily. Quite often, one of those sleek black cars (or was it the same one every time?) would glide up beside her as she walked home or took out her garbage. Every time, Mycroft would roll down his window, greet her, and then inquire as to his brother's business. Molly just told him. She didn't think Sherlock really minded. It likely just saved him the trouble or responding to Mycroft's texts or something. She found his brotherly concern rather sweet really.

She started inviting him in for tea whenever he met her. The first time he had been adorably flustered even as he declined her offer.

She kept asking now and again, and he kept making up excuses. But now there was a gentle smile. Perhaps he admired her persistence.

Well, if he wouldn't come to her, perhaps she could, well, court him another way. What was it her gran had always said? The way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Yes that was it. Make him sweets and things. Show him you could feed him up properly. Molly grinned and tied to a small apron with little kittens stitched onto it around her waist. Then she set to work.

Her first gift was a tiny tin of perfectly baked little raspberry biscuits. She was bold enough to use the heart cookie cutter, then dabbed the jam neatly into the center of each one. Mycroft had protested, something about a diet. Maybe Molly had looked especially crestfallen, maybe the biscuits had looked too enticing to pass up, maybe Mycroft was just trying to keep a useful contact... whatever the reason. He took them, popped one into his mouth, thanked her, and Molly's heart swelled as the car sped away.

She started trying to think of other recipes he might like. She knew Sherlock had an insatiable sweet tooth when he let himself eat anything and hoped that perhaps those tastes carried over to his brother. She began picking Sherlock's brain about Mycroft's favorite treats while they were growing up. The consulting detective snorted impatiently more often than not, clearly nettled every time his brother was brought up. Eventually he just told her however, so he could get on with his work.

And so Molly began baking everyday. She got Mycroft's office address from Sherlock and sent him packages of baked goods, homemade sweets, and little notes anonymously everyday. She figured Mycroft had to know it was from her, but... still. It made her feel bolder.

Then all of a sudden, Mycroft's visits stopped. Molly still sent him packages, but began to wonder if she had overstepped herself. Mycroft hadn't said he was interested, or... Maybe he was bored of her. If he was like Sherlock, then that was entirely possible. Molly trudged home. She hadn't met Mycroft in nearly two weeks. She'd given up sending packages a few days ago, not sure if they were even being opened anymore. She couldn't help but look around for a black car as she reached her building. Nothing but a bit of snow. She sighed and let herself in, scooting her boots across the rug inside and nearly ruining a letter that had been pushed in under the door.

Molly picked it up and saw her name written in elegant script on the front. The stationary was... heavy. Expensive. She tugged off a mitten and opened it where it had been sealed with old fashioned wax. Her heart leapt as she read the letter, scarcely believing the words on the page.

_Dear Miss Hooper,_

_Please excuse my absence over the past week. I had a touch of business to look after out of London. I would very much like to see you. Tonight if I could._

Kindly text the number at the bottom of the letter. I've already made reservations at 8 for dinner.

_Regards,_

_Mycroft_

Molly, her hands shaking, quickly fished out her mobile and typed in the number.

_I would love to! 8 it is then - Molly x_

She checked her watch, gave a little squeak and then rushed upstairs to get ready. In another few minutes there was a reply on her mobile.

_Excellent. I will arrange transportation. - M.H._

Molly felt positively giddy.

A car was waiting outside as soon as she stumbled back out through the door in heels that were probably too high to be safe in the snow. Still, she hardly felt the cold as she slid into the car and then was whisked away to meet Mycroft Holmes. The car stopped outside a very pricey looking restaurant indeed. Molly stepped out, looking around a moment as she felt a little lost. Then she gathered herself and walked confidently indoors.

"Ah, Miss Hooper I presume?" asked a tuxedo-wearing waitor.

"Er, yes, that's me, I-"

"Right this way. Mr. Holmes has arranged for a private room."

The waiter lead Molly down a small warmly lit hallway to a room that seemed to be lit by nothing but candles. There were rich red curtains draping along the walls, a single table with two chairs. Mycroft had his back to her, his hand gracefully reaching for the champagne that was sitting on ice and refilling his glass.

"Miss Hooper, Mr. Holmes," the waiter said lightly, bowing. Mycroft set down his glass and stood up hurriedly.

"Ah, excellent. You look splendid," said Mycroft, his voice sounding a bit tight, though Molly imagined it was do to nerves.

Molly smiled. "You do... too," she said, her breath catching slightly as she took the man in. Oh... so her sweets hadn't gone to waist. She felt a pink flush creep up her cheeks. Mycroft's whippet thin form was no longer quite suited to that description. There was a general softness to his frame now, a round potbelly pushing out against his waistcoat, causing his trouser waistband to pinch him visibly. The trousers too were much much tighter, the man's thighs having thickened visibly.

Molly swallowed and quickly sat down. Mycroft followed suit, more slowly, tugging his clothing into place. They chatted and caught up, the conversation veering away from Sherlock rather quickly. They had some truly excellent oysters, a plate of duck unlike anything Molly had ever tasted... But then the pathologist noticed that Mycroft seemed to be holding back, eating far less than his portion. He declined when she offered her unfinished meal. Well that wasn't right. She wanted to see him enjoy himself. Eat properly and heartily with a good appetite.

"You really do look splendid, Mycroft," Molly said quietly as their cutlery fell silent and they waited for their next course. She fiddled with her napkin.

"I was honest in my previous appraisal as well Mi-Molly," Mycroft replied, refilling both their glasses.

"Good. That's good. I just meant... You don't have to diet on my account," she added, feeling the heat collect in her cheeks now. Perhaps it was the champagne.

"I... oh. I see," Mycroft said. Molly looked up to see the other man looking at her with intensity. She was reminded of when Sherlock was in one of his deductions, only Mycroft wasn't looking at her physical appearance, no it felt like he was reading her thoughts.

"I really do think you look fine. More than that, actually. And come on, you've been working hard," said Molly, suddenly babbling, "And winter's coming, you'll need it to keep warm!"

Mycroft blinked, then broke into warm chuckles.

"Full of surprises aren't you, Miss Hooper? I must say I very much appreciate how you think," he replied, winking and picking up his utensils again.

Molly smiled and moved her chair closer. She too picked up her utensils, but the food didn't go to her own mouth. Mycroft's thin pink lips parted in surprise and Molly slipped the morsel inside. The man chewed slowly, meticulously, then swallowed.

"Oh, Miss Hooper..."

"Please, you can call me Molly, especially if we..." she trailed off, cutting another bite for Mycroft.

"Oh, but of course, my dear Molly," he purred, smiling as he plucked it neatly from the fork. He would most definitely be having dessert tonight. And every night following. All diets were off as far as he and Molly were concerned.


End file.
